The Consequence of Loving Colton
Page 6“Aw, they don’t feed you down at NYU?”
“I’m an artist.” I folded my arms. “It’s basically in the curriculum, if you aren’t starving, you aren’t talented.”
“Oh, baby,” Mom interrupted. “Of course you’re talented. And if you’re hungry just tell me and I’ll send Colton or Jason down there with some cookies.”
Colton at my door? With cookies? Naked? Yes, please.
“Hate to interrupt all this fun talk about starving, but . . .” Jason clapped his hands and leaned forward on the table. “Wedding weekend.”
Mom held up her finger and reached under the table, pulling out the biggest notebook I’d ever seen in my entire life and then slamming it down onto the wooden surface in front of her.
Two words: destination wedding. No way was I going to allow my mom to do to me what she was doing to Jason and Jayne. I was going to fly to Mexico, get married, then sip margaritas all week long. No wedding book. Ever.
“So.” Mom jerked the book open, using both hands, which was probably necessary, all things considered. A few papers floated to the floor. Sighing, she scanned the page. “The event company gets here at six a.m., so you’ll need to be up at five if you want breakfast in time.”
“And when you say you”—I played with my napkin—“you mean . . . ?”
“You,” everyone said in unison.
“Me?”
“All of us.” Mom smiled triumphantly. “As a family.”
“Yeah, I’d been kind of worried about that.”
I wasn’t a morning person. How was I supposed to look my best when my eyes were swollen shut?
Peonies?
Wedding tent?
Cupcakes that needed frosting?
Chairs?
Centerpieces?
Well, my mom was a woman possessed. It was the only explanation.
“That’s it.” She sighed happily. “Now on to Saturday.”
“That was one day?” I shouted.
Everyone’s head snapped in my direction.
“I mean . . .” I coughed. “Wow, that’s all we have to do tomorrow?” I gave a solitary clap. “Yay.”
“Very convincing,” Colton mouthed.
I flipped him off.
Not a proud moment.
“He’s a liar!” I argued. “Need I remind everyone of the pancake incident of ninety-seven?” During Thanksgiving Colton and I had gotten into mom’s pancake mix. I’d told Colton that Mom said there was a prize at the bottom—but he had to eat all the mix in order to get it. He didn’t believe me. So I got angry. And put the pancake mix down his pants. The funny part was, he was a scrawny kid so I was easily able to overtake him. Unfortunately I didn’t know my own strength and gave him a black eye.
When my parents found out, Colton lied and said he gave himself the black eye. My parents told Colton’s parents, it was a whole . . . thing. Needless to say everyone found out he was lying and that I was to blame. Our parents were convinced that we had been fighting, so they said we had to learn how to solve our differences through competition rather than beating on each other.
“That was one time!” Jason pushed his chair back as Dad maneuvered himself around an irate Colton.
Smirking, I rose from my chair. “I rest my case.”
“There’s only one way to settle this dispute.” Colton’s eyes darkened.
“Oh, hell,” I muttered under my breath, my heart hammering against my chest as I recognized the look in his eyes.
“You ready, squirt?” Colton breathed down my neck. Not how I’d imagined us spending the rest of the evening. I’d had witty banter, romantic movies, and possible kissing on my mind, not . . . this.
“I’m always ready,” I fired back. “I was ready last Christmas when you fell on your ass—”
“Mom! Milo said ass,” Jason yelled up the stairs.
Ignoring him, I continued. “—and I was ready last summer when we ended the game at a tie because you were bleeding all over the table.”
“I broke my finger.” Colton threw his hands into the air. “And you laughed!”
“You broke it playing Ping-Pong!” I snapped. “What did you want me to do? Call 911?”
“Guys!” Jason held out his hands between us.
“Let’s have a fair game, all right?” Jason looked at me longer than necessary. Fine, I’d cheated once, but I was ten, give me a break.
“Fair game,” I seethed.
“Fair game.” Colton blew me a kiss.
“Terms?” Jason asked.
“I win,” Colton said, his eyes narrowing, “she promises never to bring up the pancake incident again—or at least for a year, we all know it’s hard for little squirt to keep her mouth shut.”
I stuck out my tongue.
Colt’s eyes heated for a brief moment before he swore and said, “Cute.”
“And your terms?” Jason’s eyes narrowed. “If you win?”
“I want . . .” I bit my lip. I wanted a kiss. I wanted time with Colton, I wanted . . . “Colton watches Star Wars with me.”
Colton groaned. He was the only guy breathing who hated Star Wars. When he was little he’d had nightmares that Jabba the Hutt was in his closet. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">